


My broken heart is my alibi

by howbadcanmyficsbe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Broken Heart Syndrome, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Heart Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Seine, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22216828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe
Summary: Takotsubo cardiomyopathy: a weakening of the left ventricle, the heart's main pumping chamber, usually as the result of severe emotional or physical stress. Observable symptoms are indistinguishable from those of a heart attack. The condition is also known as “broken heart syndrome,” as it is often triggered by upsetting events such as the death of a loved one or even happy events such as a surprise party.In which having a functioning heart is quite new to Javert.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 8
Kudos: 97





	My broken heart is my alibi

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Happy Not Knowing" by Carly Rae Jepsen

_Takotsubo cardiomyopathy_ : a weakening of the left ventricle, the heart's main pumping chamber, usually as the result of severe emotional or physical stress. Observable symptoms are indistinguishable from those of a heart attack. The condition is also known as “broken heart syndrome,” as it is often triggered by upsetting events such as the death of a loved one or even happy events such as a surprise party.

* * *

Oftentimes, Javert wondered if this heart of his was worth the trouble it gave him. For what was surely his entire life, Javert assumed the thing was never even present in his breast, its steady rhythms but a phantom endlessly pumping in a mockery of the living. Tools had no use for such things, for what purpose does a weapon need to feel? It need only to be sharpened, wielded with intent to kill. Miraculously, he was now disarmed, in a manner of speaking. His sharp edges had been dulled by the powerful current of the river, rendering any swipe a futile endeavor, serving only to bring him exhaustion and fruitless tears as he raged, bedridden.

More extraordinary was Jean Valjean, sheathing that blade and assuring him of its use for good. In order for any dying plant to survive, he explained, its shriveled branches and bulbs would need to be cut to allow the remainder to grow unhampered by dead weight. So he hesitantly took the dampened edge, severing ties until he could start to see hints of green underneath rotted wood. Even so, it was a slow, careful process, discovering that the life had persisted, and learning how to uncover it without splitting in two.

Bit by bit, Javert whittled. With each new case he took on as an inspector, he whittled. In his visits with Valjean, distributing alms, he whittled. Each day he called upon Valjean, to have tea, to break bread, to watch him garden, he whittled with fervor. To wrest any possible integrity from that heart was his mission, but Javert found himself discovering odd, new emotions creeping from his chest. Though, any feeling was sure to be new; he had not righty felt anything but a wretched sense of duty for fifty years. Never before had he considered a higher duty, to other human beings, and, as Valjean reminded, a duty to himself. What he fixated on now, a year later, was not his obligation to others, but his infatuation with a saint of a convict.

Was infatuation too strong a word? Or, was it perhaps not strong enough to surmise the ache in his old heart? The sensation was surely beyond any verbiage he might conjure, an invasive, thorny ivy snaking its way from his chest and ensnaring him. And how lovely! How horrible! To be surrounded and tangled in adoration.

And what a fool he was, to think he could deserve such things from Valjean. Friendship was already a supposition far greater than Javert could hope for. He would find contentment enjoying Valjean’s company as it was, to accept what kindness he was given, and work to return it just as well. For all intents, Javert was happy, but kept this longing deep in his heart, never to be uncovered. He would not overthink a brush of a palm, a hand on a shoulder, or a long look from Valjean. It was out of the question, and subsequently buried in the recesses of his mind.

The summer was hot; a wet, humid climate permeated every corner of the city. On days such as this, Javert was inclined to sit in his shirtsleeves in a dark room, keeping the sun’s rays at bay with drawn curtains. Instead, he sat outside in the thick of it, mercifully shaded under the largest of Valjean’s trees. His collar clung to his skin, and he loosened his necktie to abate the stifling enclosure of his throat. At that moment, Valjean mutely waved to him, crouched at the flower beds. He nodded and rose from the bench as they returned inside.

Javert rested at the edge of the kitchen table, comfortably slouching, uncharacteristically flippant with his posture, as Valjean washed his hands in the basin. He took in his broad shoulders, his bare forearms, and the faded scars scattered across them. It was far from the first time he had laid eyes on them in the past months. They were a familiar anchor now, a reminder of the past and a promise of a healing future. Another feeling stirred in his stomach, an unnamable desire. He pushed the thought away as Valjean turned to him and walked closer, drying his hands with a towel and eyeing Javert. A trace of soil still rested on the edge of his cheek, a remnant of wiping sweat from his brow.

Giving a slight smirk, Javert licked his thumb and rose his hand to his cheek, wiping away the smudge of dirt. The touch was firm, but light, the wetness cold on his skin, still warm from the sun. Javert noticed an odd flush on his face and worried momentarily that it was burnt, pink from the day outside. However, any concern that wanted to ascend to Javert’s tongue was quieted as he looked at his expression.

Valjean was staring intently at Javert’s face, as if searching for some hidden truth behind it; a remarkable depth ran through his features, his eyes dark. His eyes moved slowly across his face, studying. At the same time, he moved forward, resting one hand on the table and one on Javert’s shoulder as his lips found Javert’s.

It was softer than any silk, more assaulting than a strike of lightning, more freeing than any release. Javert all but melted under the press of Valjean’s kiss, sighing with the relief of a man exonerated from the greatest of punishments, a man welcomed into heaven’s gates. He felt a warmth spread through him, a happiness flowing out like a burst dam, overwhelming every sense; Javert wondered if one could die from this feeling, from so much love that threatened to spill from him in unknown sounds. In that moment, he could only feel Valjean, smell Valjean, see Valjean, hear Valjean, _taste_ Valjean.

Javert leaned into the kiss, reciprocating as their noses collided and clumsily brought a hand to hold onto Valjean’s bicep. His breath quickened, his heart pounded, and his head swam as Valjean pulled away for breath, panting heavily. Javert looked at him then and drank in the look of satisfaction, the tentative joy in his smile, brighter and more brilliant than the afternoon sun peeking through lazily passing clouds.

And then came the pain.

Something in his chest swelled as his breath hitched, hand flying to his breast. Valjean’s face fell quickly, giving him space but maintaining a firm grip on his shoulder as his breath came in ragged gasps.

“Javert?” he asked softly.

He could scarcely hear Valjean call out again as he doubled over, clutching at his left shoulder as a burning pain ripped through him. Every instinct told him to cry out, but his mouth was preoccupied with fast, uncontrolled breathing. Distantly, he could hear Valjean and registered that he was being ushered into a chair. He curled in on himself, hoping to abate the agony for even a moment and felt he still could not find enough air to fill his lungs. For an instant he imagined, if he had succeeded in drowning, this would have been the feeling of water crashing through his body, dragging him down to the depths of hell, robbing him of all breath.

Valjean was kneeling beside him, saying something beyond Javert’s comprehension with a splayed palm on his back. He wanted so terribly to lean into the touch, to savor the feeling of that gentle hand, but all he could feel was the fiery ache running hotly through his left arm. Attempting to quell the breakneck pace of his heaving, he inhaled and exhaled sharply through his nose. He could sense a wave of nausea riding through him; he tightly shut his eyes and focused on breathing as Valjean’s words began to reach his ears again.

“…haps I should call for a doctor?” Valjean’s tone was level, but there was a hint of panic at its edges.

“I-“ he stopped, spluttering into labored breathing as he opened an eye and stole a glance at Valjean’s face. Javert clamped them shut again and breathed sharply through his teeth. Of all things, even under all the worry eclipsing his expression, the man was frustratingly radiant. The sun coming through the window fell behind him, casting a glow around his white curls. Ducking his head again, Javert tried to turn his attention back to the throbbing ache in his shoulder.

“I... I am not sure,” he finally managed. The pain was beginning to diminish, its sharpness ebbing in the wake of one look at the sunlight pouring from Valjean’s face, his touch.

“You should lie down at the very least,” Valjean said. His hand was overwhelmingly warm, a brand moving in a caress to the small of his back. Could a mere man contain such heat? The fire ravaging his arm paled in comparison. Javert flushed at the thought of his rough palms on bare skin, exploring places only Javert had ever accessed, impossibly kneading heat into cold, stone flesh.

“Can you stand?” Valjean asked.

Javert exhaled, nodded slowly, and began to rise to his feet. Quickly, as if fearing he would fall, Valjean brought Javert’s arm around his shoulders, carrying part of his weight as they walked. He found a protest building in his mouth, but soon found he required the support, winded as he was.

If he were in any right state of mind, Javert would be mortified to lie in Valjean’s bed, tended to like a sick child. Against his better judgement, he allowed it, firmly gripping at his shoulder with a stern expression as Valjean, without a second thought, untied his cravat and opened his collar, murmuring about his ability to breathe. He gave a worried glance at the door and an assurance of calm before exiting to send for a doctor. Javert sat, face warming from the touch and the thought of Valjean’s lips, so sorrowfully far from his own.

When Valjean returned, having sent the message, he strode to the side of the bed, carrying a basin and rag. He pulled a chair from the corner of the room and placed the back of his hand on Javert’s forehead.

“You’re quite flushed,” Valjean said. Before Javert could refute it, Valjean pressed a cool, dampened rag to his temple. Inwardly, Javert cursed the rag, creating such an insurmountable barrier between bare skin. Again, he felt illness rising in his throat and took a harrowing breath.

“Perhaps the waistcoat as well?” Valjean asked.

“What of it?” Javert said through clenched teeth.

Valjean, maddeningly, was already unbuttoning the godforsaken thing. “It is hot enough with the weather as it is.” Guiding Javert out of the waistcoat, he winced as Javert let out a hiss. Valjean carefully folded it and set it on the bedside table, bringing the rag back to Javert’s head. Mercifully, the fire in his shoulder was starting to truly subside, only ghosts of pain reaching his nerves.

As it happened, Javert was well acquainted with Valjean’s bedside manner. The man was single-minded, gentle but firm, and frustratingly persistent. Javert attempted to remind himself to be wary, to wrench kindness from himself, to show any measure of gratitude. He thought suddenly that he had surely ruined anything between them. Valjean had just _kissed_ him and here he was, lying about stupidly, clenching his heart like a fool.

“Valjean,” he said. “I apologize.”

Lowering the rag, Valjean looked at him, puzzled. “Whatever are you apologizing for?”

“You gave me such a thing, and this is how I repay you?”

The look of puzzlement turned to something more horrified. “Javert, you can hardl-“

A distant knocking interrupted him. Valjean stood, telling Javert to wait. In deft motions, he rolled down and buttoned his shirt cuffs again. It made Javert’s stomach turn to see how practiced it was. He gave Javert a final odd glance before leaving to answer the door.

The first to walk through into the room was the doctor, followed meekly by Valjean. Javert gave a stinted greeting before allowing the man to examine him. Valjean looked on all the while, wringing his hands in worry at the edge of the room. Confined to the bed, Javert itched to hold him, to provide any assurance that there was no lasting damage. Regardless, he wished to wrap him in his arms, if only to bring his face back to that blissful smile.

Eventually the doctor began to pack his instruments away. “Well,” he said, “you seem to have had an upset of the heart. These things are not uncommon for a man your age. You said this has never happened before?”

“No,” Javert said.

“If there was some sort of inciting incident, that could be it. Have you received any bad news lately? Any troubles or stressors?”

Javert was silent for a moment, the air hanging between him and Valjean felt thick, oppressive. He opened his mouth, closed it, and furrowed his brow. The doctor looked between them and shook his head.

“…In any case,” the doctor continued, “I would recommend abstaining from any straining physical activity for the next two weeks. If no symptoms persist I should think it fine.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” Valjean said.

“Of course. Do call for me if you have need of anything.”

Valjean escorted him from the room and returned with a perturbed look on his face. Uncomfortably, Javert shifted in the bed. At the same time, Valjean felt too close and too far away as he stood at the doorway. He could sense another sort of ache in his chest now, a primal desire to see the skin underneath Valjean’s sleeves once again. Slightly, Valjean worried at his lip, leaving it pink and inviting.

“You look wa-“

“I know I look warm,” Javert snapped. “I-“ he sighed. “Forgive me.”

After a brief pause, Valjean walked back to the bed, taking a seat at its edge and letting out a long breath. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

“It is I who should apologize,” Valjean said. “I simply took things too quickly, or perhaps I was mistaken to- to… well.” He blushed, looking aside. “I shan’t do such a thing again.”

Valjean turned back towards Javert to find him sitting up and pulling his face to his own in a kiss. Mumbling his name against his lips, Valjean moved away.

“Javert!” he said, face red as a tomato from the garden. “Your heart-“

Stopping short as Javert drew him into another kiss, he sighed and repaid it, circling an arm around Javert’s back and holding tightly to his shirt. When they both relented to breathe, Javert immediately spoke.

“I would suffer it a thousand more times to kiss you once more.” He kissed him again with haste. “Never apologize for it, swear to me.”

Breathless, Valjean nodded, hungrily dragging him closer. Of course, Javert knew it could very well be a risk. Though he found it unlikely to catch him unawares again, he would happily throw his heart into harm’s way, if only to feel Valjean’s lips. It was the danger of pruning a bush too close, to cut some vital root. But, it had to be done for it to bloom, and Javert’s heart was bursting with unfolding buds, lush with greenery.

If it were possible to die of such joy, he would have once welcomed it. Now though, Javert wanted to experience all the seasons, the sun, the clouds, the snow, the floods, the droughts; he wanted all of the elements to overwhelm him to his very breaking point and sprout anew in the ruins, for there was a remarkable gardener waiting. And oh! To be held in such calloused, gentle hands. Javert felt them now, running through his hair, cradling his face, gripping at his back. The heat surrounding them no longer felt oppressive; it was vivid, unfiltered sunlight, seeping into his skin and asking him to grow taller, stronger, more loving than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to get this one-shot out before I start school again. I have several other WIPs going but I'll be slowing down for the time being and trying to graduate and all that. As always, you can keep up with my Valvert yelling on Twitter :)


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